LORD DECADENT'S OBSESSION (16 page)

than ever to win his lady. He directed the coachman to Doughty Street. This had gone

on long enough. He would simply inform her that she had no choice. Since he was her

master, she'd have to obey. Whatever her problem with the match, he could easily

dispel her worries. She'd mentioned their "disparate consequences" in her missive as the

reason for ending their arrangement. That was nonsense, no matter what society or his

mother might say.

He gingerly walked to the door at number forty-two and rapped the brass

knocker with resolve. The door opened to reveal a tall, haughty gentleman, who wore a

pristine white wig and no smile.

"Yes."

"I am the Marquess of Wycroft, and I have come to pay a call on Mrs.

Huntington." He handed the butler his card. The man took it with his white-gloved

fingers, glancing down at it over his straight, perfectly shaped nose. His eyes came up

to meet Prentice's as he began to shake his head.

"Madam is not receiving." He handed Prentice's card back to him.

"She will receive me, my good man."

"No, she left special instructions with regard to you, my lord. She is especially
not

receiving you."

Prentice wanted to throttle the man who seemed to have dominion over this

house as well as over him, albeit temporarily. Instead, he attempted to appeal to the

man's sense of loyalty to his mistress, through a totally fabricated story.

"I have been told Mrs. Huntington has been ill, and I wish to express my sincere

concern."

"I have no idea where you would have heard such a thing, my lord. The servants

here are quite loyal. They never would have spread the Mrs.' business around like that."

Prentice smiled. "They might not have, my good man, but you just did. Now, if

you please." Prentice attempted to push his way into the foyer.

The butler's haughtiness suddenly disappeared. "Please, sir, she will be angry as

a wet hen if she knows you are here."

"I can handle her anger, ah, what is your name?"

"Ferguson, sir."

"Yes, Ferguson, just tell me where I might find her, and I won't say a word about

who told me of her illness."

"She's not ill, sir. She's frightfully sad, though. She won't eat, and we're all

worried for her health."

"She hasn't eaten, you say? Since when?"

"It has been several days, my lord."

Prentice felt his body heat in anger. He ran toward the stairs, muttering about

incompetence and good help. He made his way to Desiree's bedchamber. Once in front

of the door, he attempted some semblance of calm. Surely Ferguson had exaggerated

the length of time Desiree had been without food.

He knocked, but received no answer. He tried the door handle, but it wouldn't

budge. He then began to shout, foregoing any calm he'd attempted to foster. "Desiree,

open this door."

He listened carefully. Nothing.

"Either you open this door, or I shall kick it in."

He heard her faint voice. "Go away."

"I will not, until you see me."

"Please, go away."

He rattled the door handle, and then on impulse, shoved his shoulder against the

door. It popped open.

"Oh, my god." The scene before him was shocking.

* * * * *

She'd heard him distantly, calling to her. Her mind was hazy, her energy sapped.

It wasn't until the door burst open that she became aware someone was really there. She

was weak, unable to lift her head from the pillow. Her mouth was dry, thirsty, but no

water. Didn't want the servants around. Alone. She wished to be alone. She wanted to

die.

She heard shouting, a demanding voice, male. It sounded like food, water,

doctor. She was too weak to fend the noise off, but with her whole being she wished it

would stop.

Then, someone was at her side, the mattress leaning under their weight. Hands

on her head, pushing away the hair she'd been too weak to move herself. "Oh, my

sweeting," a voice said, but it seemed as though she were in another world. Her eyes

wouldn't stay open.

"What have you done to yourself?"

The man's voice again. She hadn't the strength to answer.

"Prentice?"

"Yes, dear, it's me."

"It's over. Go." The words sapped what little energy she could muster. She lapsed

into an eerie kind of sleep. She was conscience but felt distant. She was aware but then

not.

"I won't go, and nothing is over. I'm here to take care of you."

"No." She dug deep into her reserves. He must leave. She'd done what she must

and wouldn't turn back.

Ferguson brought some broth which Prentice took from him, then ordered the

man out of the room. "Shut the goddamned door, and no one come in here unless I tell

them to, is that understood."

"Yes, my lord." The door closed quietly.

"Here, Desiree, you must take this broth."

"No." She turned her head stubbornly.

Gritting his teeth, Prentice emphasized each word. "Open. Your. Mouth."

Chapter Sixteen

Prentice held her while he force-fed the broth into her unwilling mouth. His

warmth felt nice. In these moments of extreme weakness, it was welcome, too. Strength

to fight him eluded her.

The doctor came and with a cursory examination, declared her malnourished.

"She's starving herself."

"Is there any damage?"

"Not that I can tell. She is not in any pain but is as weak as a kitten. Upon talking

to her staff, I learned she hasn't eaten in nearly a week."

Prentice's arms wrapped around her. When she was stronger, she would make

him leave. If he persisted, she'd disappear. But not today. Today, she would revel in his

attentions. All the better to send him away with a scathing rebuke when she was strong

enough to deliver such a thing. He would forever remember her angry words, as she

castigated him for being such a miserable libertine.

For now, though, she would allow him to hold her, just for a little while longer.

While she slept, he could hold her, what harm would that do? Tomorrow, she would

tell him that she meant every word she'd written. Tomorrow.

* * * * *

Prentice lay next to Desiree, having pulled her into his arms. Her head now

rested on his chest, and she was sleeping. Even with the broth, she'd showed no signs of

improvement, but he knew logically it would take time.

He traced over the fine lines of her jaw and nose, over her pale lips, remembering

her smile on the day they went to the folly. She'd been filled with joy then. What had

changed? What had brought her to this? To telling him she never wished to see him

again? So many questions.

He'd sent Ferguson to his home, requesting the necessities he'd need for a stay.

He was determined not to leave until he saw Desiree well and he had the answers he

wanted. Byrd would dither and insist on moving in as well. Prentice wouldn't fight

him. The hawkish man was worth his weight in gold, even if he irritated the hell out of

his master.

Prentice allowed his mind to drift to another time, another place, another

woman. He'd lain like this with Abigail, sure that if he willed her to live, she would.

They'd been like this when she'd looked up at him with dull eyes, whispered her love,

and died peacefully in his arms. He'd held her for hours after, afraid it was true, afraid

of what came next, after he relinquished her body to the grave.

What had come next was nothing like he'd imagined. No, it was far worse, and in

many ways, still was. Only Desiree had shown him that life could again be bright. She

was everything he could wished for and had never dreamed would come into his life

twice. He, a man of the flesh, with the most decadent of sexual appetites, deserved to

tread life's path alone, yet he'd been afforded two women who shared his proclivities,

instead of deriding him for them.

He'd loved Abigail, and in many ways still did. She'd died giving him a child, a

sacrifice worthy of sainthood in his mind. She'd given his life meaning, and before he'd

understood what that was, she was gone, taking with her the best part of him.

He'd begun to see that man coming back again, with Desiree. The man he wished

to be: caring, giving, loving. He'd felt the possibility of a future, something he'd thought

had forsaken him. He'd fallen in love again, as surely as he had with Abigail, and he

wanted
to be in love. He wanted to spend his days and nights with Desiree at his side,

her beautiful bottom under his strap, and then her body under his, as they pour their

love into each other. She must see that them being together was the only way he would

survive.

* * * * *

Three days passed before Desiree was strong enough to hold her eyes open for

more than a few moments at a time. She'd had more broth than any human being

should have to bear, but through it all, Prentice was there, pouring spoonful after

spoonful into her mouth. He'd held her throughout the days and nights, tending to her

personal needs, not allowing anyone else into the room. He'd told her that her cheeks—

that is, her facial cheeks—regained some of their color.

When she'd realized what the situation was, she was flattered and overcome

with an emotion she was still too disoriented to understand. However, as her strength

began to return, so did her resolve. She was ill because she'd forced herself to let him

go, and too weak in mind and spirit to accept the decision. Now, he was restoring her to

health, only to force her to do it all again.

He now slept beside her, facing away for the first time since his serendipitous

arrival three, or was it four days before? Even from this angle, he was beautiful. The soft

purr of his breathing brought back the precious memory of their all-too–brief time spent

at the folly, when everything seemed possible. His blond hair was disheveled, his

clothes wrinkled. He wore a white lawn shirt and brown breeches. His feet were bare,

much as she wished the rest of his body was at that moment.

She must be getting better, because she felt her quim clench at the sight of his

buttocks, molded so beautifully by his tight-fitting garment. Though the shirt would

normally have covered such a delectable view, his restlessness in sleep had forced it

above his waist. She could barely see his bronzed skin, just a small patch above the

waistband. She longed to touch it, to see if it was as warm as it had been as they lay in

the sun.

He stirred now, rolling onto his back. Her eyes went immediately to his crotch.

Even as he slept, his cock bulged. She wondered if he was dreaming of their days and

nights together in Cambridge. She longed to know if he dreamt of the glorious

spankings he'd given her, the gift he'd conveyed by their administration. Her bottom

tingled, wishing he would wake, attempt to convince her how wrong she'd been and

drive the point home with his hand. She ached for him to thrust himself into her and

fuck her until she came to her senses. How she wished he would take control of her

foolish mind, making it impossible for her to give him up so easily.

But it hadn't been easy, not by far. Her ruination had shaped her life for ten

years, causing her to endure the humiliation of lying beneath her husband as he

grunted and groaned his way to his climax, never once realizing her needs. His fetid

breath in her face, his rank body odor and those damnable side whiskers, all were

enough to cause her to cast up her accounts. He'd provided for her well financially and

left her a wealthy widow, but it was the rest she couldn't forgive: his temper, his

ignorance, his circumstance. She'd been the daughter of title and money, and was

foisted off because she was no longer fit to occupy the bed of a nobleman. It was all

Prentice Hyde's fault, something she would be loath to forget, lest he be in a position to

hurt her yet again.

He stirred, reaching toward her. She scooted out of bed, and his hand landed on

the spot where she had lain. She backed away from the bed, watching him, until his

eyes slowly opened, confusion written on his face.

He came up on one elbow and looked at the bed. Then he looked at her. "What

are you doing? You are supposed to be resting."

"I'm fine now."

He rubbed his sleepy eyes with his palms and dragged himself to a seated

position. "How are you feeling? Stronger, I hope."

"I'm fine." Oh, how she wanted to run into his arms.

His legs fell over the side of the bed as he raked his fingers through his tawny

hair. It looked as though he might have done that hundreds of times as his hair was

hopelessly mussed.

"You should eat a bit of something. We could try some solid food today."

"
We
won't be trying anything today. I must ask you to leave."

His expression didn't change, making her unsure if he'd heard her. He rose,

wincing slightly when his bones creaked, as they adjusted to the new position. He

stretched, pulling his shirts up. He thrust his pelvis forward, giving her a wonderful

view of the prominent bulge in his breeches.
The man is incorrigible
. Under different

circumstances, she'd release him and ease the pain he must be feeling.

She watched as he went to the washstand and splashed cold water on his face